


Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Mutantstuck [18]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (as in Dave has to be mildly sedated in order to sit still long enough to heal), Drug Use, Gen, Guilt, healing from a fuckton of shit, honest communication for once in their FUCKING lives, marvelstuck, of course this can only be accomplished with the aid of drugs, oh yeah better add that tag, striderian bullshit guiltrips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 03:15:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Ambrose ends up in the same room as Dave, without any other Striders to monitor him. They...talk about some shit.





	Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax

No matter what anyone says to the contrary, you don't plan it out. Being in the same room with him. Hell, if anything you plan the other way—D's two said you oughta avoid being alone with the kid (with _your_ kid, with your _own_ kid) and they know better'n you, don't they? 

Still seems weird as fuck, that they know him better. Maybe a lil' bit painful. _Definitely_ a lil' bit painful. 

Stop fuckin' lyin', Ambrose. It's been long enough that you're damn near used to dropping a part of yourself that you built your identity around for more than a decade—yeah, you're almost used to not being just Bro, it doesn't take two or three times and a hard nudge to get your attention anymore—but that don't mean that it doesn't fuckin' hurt way more than just "a lil' bit." With D it's not as bad, funnily enough; you still know him almost as well as you should, he knows you better than you know yourself, that kinda thing—but with Dave it's...different. 

You should know him. You should know the boy who carries your genes better than anyone else did, and it hurts like hell that you depend on his cousins who might as well be his brothers for any knowledge about Dave that you might possibly need. 

But you don't know him. You still don't fucking know him. 

Maybe part of that is that you _do_ spend a lot of time carefully planning shit out so you're not alone with him, like, ever. Also that you're still working on the concept of volunteering info to his therapist. Your therapist. You may also be working on the concept of _having_ a god damn therapist. That was never your thing before, not really—D went the "qualified professional" route, you might've tagged along and zoned out in the waiting room or on a chair next to him, but you never participated before. Just kind of hung around for moral support, maybe let Reaux practice her reverse psychology bullshit or whatever it was on you at home or over texts. 

She doesn't do that to you anymore. 

At least she still talks to you. At least her pesterchum never gets more than a day or so of inactivity. 

(Not like Roxanne.) 

Fuck. Get the hell out of that subject. Get back to the fuckin' present. 

Unfortunately getting back to the present entails recognizing the lil' fact that you're frozen way too far from the door, watching Dave silently mouth words and watch you with eyes that're weirdly glassy and unfocused. It doesn't totally _look_ like a panic attack, but then again, who the fuck are you to say what the hell that'd look like on Dave? Not like you've stuck around for any of the ones you've caused, fuckin' up 'n not paying attention to when you need to split. 

You should get the fuck out. Leave him be, let him go back to his nap on the couch or whatever the fuck he was doing before you butted in without checking to make sure— 

"Damn...'s weird to be on this end of shit." Yeah, he sounds out of it. Not like he's panicking, though. More like he's high. "Y'know I'm not gonna bite you." 

"More worried about me biting you, kid." Okay. So he hasn't spooked. Doesn't mean you're not half a breath away from doing something that hits a trigger. Doesn't mean he's not _going_ to spook. You should back out, come back sometime when somebody who knows him better is around to head off any shit you might start. "I'm gonna just—" 

"Come sit down with me." God _fucking_ damn it, the smile he gives you is unguarded and amused and you literally cannot say no to that. Dave leans over like that's gonna make more room on the couch, pats the spot next to him like you need some kinda direction to know where he wants you, and against all twin-imposed rules and common sense you brush aside the edges of the blankets Dave's half-wrapped in and take the seat he's offering. "I scare you?" 

Takes you a second to realize that's a serious question. "Nah. Why would you?" 

"I got powers." He reaches up to just barely trail his fingers over the surface of the collar that's still locked around your throat. If it was anyone but your kid, you'd knock that hand back, but he's got the right to touch it. Hell, he's the one who decides whether it stays on or not. "You don't." 

"Huh. Fair point." Hold very still until he takes his hand away. Yes, you really want to reach up and keep working on rubbing the matte finish off the side of the damn thing, treating it like a worry stone again, but that can wait 'til the kid's done with you. Don't fuckin' jeopardize the one bit of unprompted contact that you're gonna get from him, even if it's through the proxy of the collar. "Still nah." 

"Why?" His eyes are curious, a lil' bit unfocused, like he's still half absorbed in the music playing through the one earbud still hooked into his ear. No fear, not this time. No panic. 

"You're my kid." 

"So?" 

Dammit. Can't just leave it at that, huh? "Trust you." As he opens his mouth for another single-word question, you reach up and start rubbing at the smooth surface of the damn collar, and answer it before he can get it all the way out. "Trust you to not give me anything I don't deserve." 

Yeah, that shuts him up. You kind of thought it might. 

Other than the momentary silence you don't get what you expect, though, because Dave takes advantage of your silence to huff out a breath and lean over on you. (You fucking _freeze._ ) He shifts, mumbles a couple fuck words under his breath, and finally ends up stretched out on the couch with his legs hooked over the armrest and his head...well, on your legs. Smiling up at you, like this is a totally fuckin' normal occurance for you and him. 

"Kid." 

"Yeah?" 

"Exactly how high are you right now?" 

His nose wrinkles up at that. It's something you recognize from D, when he's about to point out how stupid the thing you just said was. It's also how Dave used to express disgust, before he really learned to talk. You brace for the latter, hope for the former, and get neither. 

"Uh...some." The fuzzy blanket's still wrapped around him; now that he's lying down, his attempts to extricate himself from it are pretty damn futile, and after a second he just gives up and blinks up at you instead. "I got stabbed." 

"You got _what_?" 

"Stabbed." Okay, that's not something someone should say with that kind of smile on his face. _You_ are definitely not smiling, a fact Dave calls attention to by reaching up to brush his fingers over your worried face, just missing poking you in the eye. "Dude. Healing factor, remember? Gets me through all _kinds_ of shit..." 

Don't wanna think about that. You really don't. "How the fuck did you get stabbed?" 

"Accident. 's okay." Another one of those loopy smiles. "Don't hurt." 

"What—" 

"Wade gave me some shit. Makes it easier to, like...sit still 'n let shit go back together." 

"...right." (Yeah, you don't have the right to feel a stab of anger that nobody asked you before giving your kid painkillers or whatever the fuck. That's not your job. D's, maybe, or Deadpool's. That knowledge doesn't pull that knife back out of your chest, just twists it a bit.) "So whose ass do I gotta kick for stabbing you?" 

"Nobody's. Karkat's already gave Eridan more hell than he deserved." 

"Eridan?" Weird name, but okay. 

"Skinny kid. Got purple in his hair." Dave drops his hand from your face to his own hair, making a vague gesture like he's sweeping it back. "Zig-zag horns, like...fuck, I dunno." 

"Horns?" Oh, wait, you're a fuckin' idiot. "Shit, he's like your boyfriend." 

"An alien, yeah." Something flickers across Dave's face for a second, overriding the drugged glaze over his eyes. "Like Karkat." 

And you've fucked up. Not sure how, but you can tell you _did._ "Nice kid." That probably isn't gonna fix it. 

But maybe it's a start, because the kid blinks and frowns up at you like that wasn't what he was expecting. "Not human." 

"You sayin' _I_ am?" 

"...oh. Yeah." He sighs and closes his eyes, huffing out a breath. "None of us are, huh?" 

"Well, D. And Rose." 

"Nah. Rose, she sees shit."

Huh. First you've heard about that. "She a precog?" 

"Dunno. She just... _sees_." He opens his eyes again, fixing them on you. "Saw you. Saw Karkat, before that. Saw _me_ , got Dirk 'n Hal to see me—not wi' powers, just wi' your—with _his_ tech." 

_His_. Fuck. The only reason that you don't get further down that too-familiar train of thought is Dave; he groans, at the look on your face, reaches up and swats at your face. Connects, too. "Ow." 

"Can't relax if you're chasing your goddamn tail over shit that ain't got shit to do with you." 

"It does have shit to do with me." 

Lil' fucker _laughs_. "Right, 'cause I'd be lyin' here if _that_ was you." 

...huh. That's a good point. Then again... "Hell, I've done some weird-ass shit on drugs too." 

"Not what this is, Amby." 

" _Amby_?" 

"Yeah." He gives you a grin that's probably supposed to be a smirk. Too sweet for that, though. "Hey, you said you didn't like Ambrose. Can't call you Bro. Won't." 

"Fuck." You really regret being so vocally against your full name. Hell, Dirk's suggestion of "brocolli" was better'n this. "On one hand, I kinda deserve to have my life ruined, but on the other hand? No thanks." 

_Another_ fuckup. Your batting average is in the fuckin' toilet at this point. At least this one doesn't bring up that transient pained look, just...stops his half-stifled giggle, wipes the smile off his face. "Quit it." 

"Quit what?" 

"Doin' the Dirk thing." 

Okay, before you were at least kind of feigning ignorance. Now you're honestly confused. "What the hell does Dirk have to do with this shit?" 

"You're just fuckin' like him." Dave pauses. Processes that statement. "He's just like you. What _ever._ Same...punching yourself in the fuckin' face over shit y'all only think you did." 

"Dave—" 

"Why?" He crosses his arms across his chest and glares at you. It'd be more effective if he wasn't flat on his back and wrapped in blankets. "Why the fuck d'you deserve it?" 

"I just d—" 

"Gonna smack you." 

Okay, so no going with the easy gut reaction. As much as you hate it, you guess it's time to be honest, with yourself and your kid. The horror is enough to make you close your eyes before you even try to conceptualize anything, much less articulate it. 

Weird how that makes it easier. 

"You look at me like I deserve it," you tell him, quiet enough to _almost_ keep the rough pained note out of your voice. "Trust you enough to believe it." 

Dave's silent for a couple seconds. Then he makes a frustrated inarticulate noise, and, as he warned he would do, smacks you. 

(Not hard. Not even as hard as D does, when he's gettin' your attention or breakin' you out of one of those fun spirals you tend to go into when you think too long and hard about the nature of your own existence. Still, with your eyes closed and no way to anticipate the unaimed impact against your face, it's hella surprising.) 

When you open your eyes again Dave's giving you a halfhearted glare. You're not sure if it's the drugs that make it halfhearted, or if it's just him. "How the _fuck_ am I looking at you _now_?" he demands, fingers hooking loosely under the collar around your neck when you go to look anywhere other than at him. "Huh? Do I fuckin' look like I wanna ruin your life? I look like I think you deserve it?" And, when you just stare back, "C'mon. Don't fuckin' lie to me. I _know_ you." 

Okay. No lying. "Nah. You just look like you wanna smack me again." 

"I _do_. You're a dumbass." Dave sighs and lets his hand fall away from the collar, covering his eyes for a second before spreading his fingers to peek at you between them. "Your turn." 

"What?" 

"You gave me an answer, you get one. Fuckin'...truth or dare, or some shit. So long as I don't gotta move." His hand shifts again, hiding those eyes. You feel like you don't deserve to be as disappointed as you are about that. 

Might as well play along with this, though. Not like there ain't shit you want to ask him. You should probably sort through all the questions that pop into your mind, not just pick one at random, but... "He give you all the scars you got?" 

"Nah. 'm always picking up new ones." You get another quick glimpse of red eyes, there and gone before you can do more than take a mental snapshot of it. "Do you miss Roxanne?" 

Ah, shit. Well, you guess if you ask him a painful question, you're gonna get one back. "Every fuckin' day. Thought about tryin' to find her—" 

"Can't. Hal 'n Dirk tried." He shrugs, like that's the end of it. "Your turn." 

"What's the worst thing I did to you?" 

" _You_?" Dave laughs and shifts to cover his face with both hands, rubbing at his eyes with his palms. "The look on your face, that first fuckin' moment you saw me. Scared me so fuckin' bad, like seein' a ghost of somebody I killed." 

"That ain't what I mean." 

"I know it's not, but fuck you." His hands drop again, and you meet his eyes because there ain't anything else you can do. "What's the worst thing you remember doin'?" 

Shit. When he words it like that, it limits your answers considerably. At least it does if you stay within the rule of staying honest, of telling the truth. "Second time I went to therapy with you. I—fuck, I still dunno what I did, but—you got up 'n bolted." 

You don't know what you said or did, or maybe you don't remember. What you remember is that the woman across the table grabbed for your arm and you twisted away hard enough that there were bruises above the tattooed ring of numbers, not quite as dark as the ink. Dave ran, yeah, but he _only_ ran, no powers, no speed or twisting of time or whatever he does, and you could have caught him in the parking lot but you didn't dare touch him, you didn't dare make it worse than you already had. You remember that you didn't know _what_ the hell you were supposed to do, other than stop dead and call his name and tell him—

"Yeah, I remember that." His eyes are more glassy than ever; you don't think this convo's gonna last much longer before he passes out. "Dunno what spooked me. You said you were sorry." 

"I was." (And you are now.) 

"Mmm. Di'n't I have a meltdown after that?" 

"Yeah." And you were the one to bolt, at that. D picked you up, hours later and miles away; you didn't know where the hell you were at that point, but the twins did, thanks to the _fucking_ collar. That was one of the times you cursed the fact you were still wearing it, but most of that was just...guilt. "My fault." 

" _His._ " He huffs and shifts, pulling at the blanket until he gets it arranged a lil' more to his liking, eyes closing halfway through the process and not opening again. "...forgot when I was, Amby. Not now, then. _He_ never fuckin' woulda said sorry." 

"Oh." You wait for the wave of guilt you get every time you learn a new fact about the man you're not to descend. Surprisingly, it doesn't. 

"My turn," Dave says. "What do you miss?" 

Simple question. _Vague_ question—even half-stoned and nearly asleep, Dave understands info-gathering technique better than most grownass men you've met. All the ways of answering back just as vaguely flash through your mind and you just...dismiss them. 

You promised honesty. 

"You." Ah, shit. Close your eyes. "Fuck, kid, I—I missed so fuckin' much shit. You, bein' three 'n four 'n ten. All those fuckin' birthdays. Teachin' you shit. Watchin' you grow up—it fuckin' _happened,_ 'n I don't remember _shit_ about it—" 

You realize that you're absently running your fingers through Dave's hair over and over again when he reaches up and tries to catch your hand. He can't quite figure out how to do it when you're moving even that much, but the realization that you're _touching_ him, touching him without checking he's okay—that makes you freeze, makes your breath hitch in your chest and hold you immobile, and he gets ahold of your hand in that small window. 

The pressure he manages to apply might as well be a clamp around your fuckin' chest. _Shit_. 

"Bad question." It comes out as a mumble. "Sorry." 

"You're good, lil'—lil' bro." Is that okay? Is that far enough removed from anything _he_ said? You have to open your eyes just to check, even if shit's a lil' blurry. 

There's a smile on Dave's face, so yeah, you guess it is. Or maybe he's just asleep. 

"...your turn." Or maybe not. 

You think you've had enough of this game, though. "Love you, kid." 

He exhales, too long and slow to not be conscious, like he's thinking about that. Then, "Not a question." 

"Nope." 

"Love you too." 

Oh, _fuck._ Fuck. Are you dead? Did your heart stop? Are you _sure_ it didn't? 

While you're still puzzling that out, Dave mumbles, "Take a fuckin' earbud 'n restart th' playlist, man." 

And you do. 

He's got your taste in music. It's familiar and strange, enough of both to be soothing.

* * *

When you open your eyes again, Dave's still passed out on your lap. Your neck hurts. Hal's lounging on the coffee table like it's a pedastal on a catwalk and he's a lingerie model. 

You should not have that thought about your nephew. What the _fuck_ is wrong with you? 

"You look guilty," Hal remarks, shifting to actually sit up instead of...whatever he was doing. "About Dave?" 

"Kinda." Can you get up without waking Dave up? You're pretty sure you can't. "Kid asked me to sit with him." 

"Oh, I know. We were watching." 

"What the fuck?" 

At least Hal has the sense to look slightly ashamed, like he's been caught in some minor infraction. "There's a camera and a mic under the coffee table. _Usually_ it's off, unless Dave needs someone keeping an eye on him." He thinks for a moment, then adds, "He knows it's there, and when it's on. We're not...spying on him. That'd be fucked up." 

Something about the way he says it tips you off to what he means. "I'm guessin' I did that, huh." 

"No." He shrugs, an easy motion that don't really match the way he's studying you. " _He_ did, though." 

"Fuck." 

"We're changing your therapist." 

Well, that's an abrupt change of subject. Takes you a second to process it —changing your therapist means distancing you from Dave, removing you from what's meant to be a safe and healing place for him and you _know_ the reason, the reason is that you fucked up—

"Ambrose. Earth to Ambrose." Hal leans forward to wave his hand in front of your face, waiting for you to jerk in surprise before he leans back and folds his hands neatly in his lap. (Again, you realize your own hands are occupied with stroking Dave's hair back from his face. At least he's asleep this time; less chance that you'll spook him.) "Whatever you're thinking, it's probably wrong. What are you thinking?" 

Might as well keep being honest. It seems to be that kind of day. "I fucked up." 

"No, you didn't." He says that too fast to not have been expecting you to say what you just said. "If anything, _we_ fucked up. Or D did." 

"No he fuckin' didn't—what the hell're you talkin' about?" 

"The fact that _this_ is what you need with Dave. Just..." Hal hesitates, then shrugs. "Time, I guess. For us to stop monitoring you so obviously, when you're with him. Not the kind of therapy you've been trying to go through with him, not yet." 

...huh. On the one hand, you're fuckin' terrified of all the possible missteps you could take with Dave, but on the other hand. "Aight, hell yeah—no more shrink shit." 

"Oh, I'm afraid that's not quite true." The kid's got a sweet smile, when he's not using it to try and intimidate you. "You have _serious_ problems. Actually you have problems that parallel Dirk's and mine quite well; isn't it a lovely coincidence that we already know a psychiatrist who has some practice with that kind of thing?" 

"Right, 'cause you kids don't fuck around with shit until 'coincidence' is an oxymoron." 

"True. But still." Hal leans in again, this time to touch Dave's face. Kid doesn't even twitch. "Shit, he's out hard. Do you need to get up or anything?" 

Again with the subject change. "Nah. I'm good." 

The look he gives you is way too fuckin' knowing for someone this young. "Making up for lost time?" 

"Oh, fuck off." Maybe that's the wrong thing to say—too rough, too combative—but Hal just laughs. 

"Keep telling yourself that the tough front fools anyone—we heard what you said to him, Ambrose." 

You could probably come up with a comeback to that, given a couple minutes. Hal's obviously used to this kind of exchange, though, because before you even finish processing what he just said, he's up off the table and fuckin' gone. 

Which is fine. 

Not like you plan to move until Dave gives you a reason to. 

(Maybe that won't be right when he wakes up. Maybe.) 

(You'll keep your fingers crossed on that, while you wait.)


End file.
